"I will come!" said John, at last.
"That's right! Good-bye till then!"
And with a glance more expressive than words, Cicely went.
Left to himself, John threw open his study windows, and stepping out into his garden all wet with rain, made his way to its warmest corner, where, notwithstanding inclement weather, the loveliest sweet violets were thickly blossoming under his glass frames. He began to gather them carefully, and massed them together in bunches of deep purple and creamy white,—while Bainton, working at a little distance off, looked up in surprise and gratification at the sight of him. For it was many weary weeks since 'Passon' had taken any interest in his 'forced blooms.' Nebbie, having got thoroughly draggled and muddy by jumping wildly after his master through an exceedingly wet tangle of ivy, sat demurely watching him, as the little heap of delicately scented blossoms increased.
"The violets are doing wonderfully well this year, Bainton,"—he presently said, with his old kind smile, addressing his gardener—"I am taking these to Miss Vancourt this afternoon."
Bainton lifted his cap respectfully.
"God bless her!" he said,—"An' you too, Passon!"
And John, holding the fragrant bunch of small sweet flowers tenderly in his hand, answered gently—
"Thank you, my friend! I hope He will!"